The tumbling tones of water pulled,
Downward in its path,
Across beds of silent grass,
And prolific weeds and raucous bunches,
Of food or color, or lighted like pathways, to the depths and shallows below,
Finds its way around the trees and through the soil, to our hearts.
The wind can be so mild, it
Pulls and tosses it round, the
Fog of mornings broken only by
The waters rush and sounds so silent
In its work, so loud in all its slumber.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Jeff Fitzgerald
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